Devil's Highlander

Page 47

Before he could open his mouth to speak, Marjorie put a finger to her lips, begging him with her eyes to keep silent. She pulled a bit of hard-boiled butterscotch from her pocket, and sent up a silent thanks to the boys of Saint Machar — because of them, she never left the house without a sweet tucked away in her skirts. She mimicked eating, and he took it hesitantly, sticking the very tip of his tongue out to test it. A sudden smile split his face, white teeth glowing against dark skin. She fought the urge to hug him to her.
The boy nodded to the bow, and she wondered what he thought her purpose there was. She peered into the darkness.
Why would he send her to the front of the ship? It was where the younger boys had been held, in the forecastle.
But the men had been imprisoned aft.
She stood. She needed to find them, free them, and somehow trundle them all down the rope ladder and to safety.
She fingered the hairpins studded throughout her low bun. It'd been years since she'd picked a lock — thirteen to be precise, when last she'd seen the MacAlpin boys, and they'd all played a trick on the maid — but she'd simply have to try her best.
Cormac. Her heart fell. She truly did need his help, needed him. His glaring absence made her feel lonely and uncertain.
The guard's cough broke the silence and shattered her reverie.
She shook out her skirts. She may not have Cormac, but she did have herself, and she needed to pick a direction and move quickly. The watchman leaned on the rail smoking a cheroot, and she imagined she had but a minute or two to find her way to the prisoners.
Marjorie began to tiptoe aft, praying the men were still shackled there. But the boy grunted and grabbed her arm. Again he nodded to the bow. Had Jack moved the prisoners?
Shrugging, she headed where he directed, thinking it just as well. Though she hated placing the guard at her back, it was probably best to put some distance between them.
Strange, hulking shapes loomed on deck, and she slunk along in their shadows, grateful for the general creaking of timber that concealed her approach. Finally, the sound of voices came to her from below. She slowed her step.
She recognized Jack's voice and scowled. He'd apparendy survived whatever damage Cormac had done to him.
And then she heard it. A word cut through the night, so peculiar and out of place, it stood out from the conversation. And yet it was absolutely familiar to her ears. Botanicals.
She swayed, catching herself before she collapsed. It was her uncle Humphrey speaking. Her heart began to kick again, her chest sore from the fitful pounding. Terrified, she edged closer.
More words filtered up to her, odd words. Soil… propagate… the cane…
They'd captured her uncle. The bailie had been at his house earlier. Had he taken him captive? But why? Surely not for his knowledge of gardening? She crept closer, keeping to the darkest areas in the center of the deck.
Jack's voice rang out again, posing sharp questions to the old man. Anger erupted in her like hot lava, searing all impulse away and then solidifying, leaving Marjorie's will hardened and nerves stilled. Humphrey was the only family member left to her — she wouldn't stand idly by as somebody harmed him. Hands fisted in her skirts, she strode to the forecastle.
But she halted abruptly. She'd be a fool to go any farther empty-handed. Her eyes skittered along the deck, making sense of details in the darkness. There were pulleys and poles, and a variety of wooden trunks — but nothing that would serve as a weapon. She eyed mysterious metal prongs and cleats, but they were all bolted down. There were also ropes, so many ropes, skeins of it all around. It draped overhead, lay coiled on deck, and dangled from the railing in heavy loops.
She remembered an intricate ship's model Humphrey had once constructed. Humphrey. Her heart clenched, and she willed herself to be brave for him. Her eyes went to the railing, and the wooden pins around which the rope was looped. Belaying pins, her uncle had told her. They rested like pegs in holes along the rail. Holding her breath, she grabbed one, jiggled, and pulled it free.
It was smooth and solid, the length of her forearm, like a rolling pin from the kitchen. Although she'd likely prove worthless at wielding the thing, it was sound enough for a weapon, and the heft of it gave her confidence.
Mindful of her step, she tiptoed to the forecastle entry, which was no more than a dark archway near the bow.
She ducked in, stopping on a shallow landing, where a ladder led down a narrow shaft to the deck below.
Men's voices echoed up to her, and she could clearly discern distinct words and speakers now. “Cormac MacAlpin,” a strange man growled. “Or is it Lord Brodie? Why are you here?” She drew in a sharp breath. Cormac?
Was he below? Why would he be with the smugglers? Was he a party to their misdeeds? But surely not — it was Cormac. She had to believe that, no matter what had come to pass, she knew him. She knew Cormac's goodness.
“The question is, why are you here?” Cormac retorted, his voice hostile and ragged.
Cormac. He was there. There was a tingling rush through her chest, like the blood returning to her veins. She'd never heard a sweeter sound than the angry words he'd just spoken.
She wasn't alone. Even now, he was there and trying to save Humphrey. Cormac had told her he wouldn't help her, yet there he was, doing his all for her and her family.
He'd lied to her when he said he wouldn't help. The blasted man had simply been trying to protect her.
Well, blast the blasted man, she'd help him. Tucking the wooden pin in her skirts, she squatted down, gingerly venturing onto the top rung of the ladder. She wasn't such a fool to think she could drop into a meeting of smugglers and kidnappers and save the day, so breathing as shallowly as she could, she carefully stepped down a few rungs and then waited, utterly still, listening to the drama unfold below. When the time was right, she'd offer Cormac whatever assistance she could.
“'Tis best not to ask why. The MacAlpin is an unexpected boon, but a welcome one.” Jack was laughing, and from the sound of it, he stood just by the base of the ladder. Marjorie wanted to spit down at him. “Yet another strapping man to add to the cargo.”
A sharp ache cut like glass in her throat. They were discussing the prisoners, and it seemed Cormac was now one of them.
The ship lurched. “Heaven help us,” she breathed, gripping the rungs.
Footsteps pounded like erratic drumbeats overhead. She stepped down another couple of rungs, hunched so as not to be seen from above or below.
Someone shouted an order, and it was shouted again, repeated over and over, in a cascade down the deck, until it diminished from hearing. There was another lurch, and the sound of clanging and snapping.
They were leaving the dock. She clenched the ladder so tighdy the blood left her fingers.
She was in it now. But she was in it with Cormac. Her breathing grew gradually more measured. She had faith that somehow, together, they'd set all to rights.
“What's the meaning of this?” Humphrey shouted.
“Easy, old man,” Jack said. “I told the men if I dallied here too long, to get us under way. Looks as though you'll have a chance to demonstrate your vast expertise in situ — isn't that what you'd called it, you pompous blow-hard? What say you, Aidan?” The familiar name added to the frantic alarm already trilling in the back of Marjorie's mind. “You spent years in the Indies. Shall we give these louts a taste of plantation life?”
“And what a fine flavor it is,” Aidan replied. “A bit like rum and chimney soot.” The word chimney amped her internal alarm to a fever pitch. Aidan? Surely there was more than one Aidan in the world. There'd been something familiar in his voice, though, and it niggled. But surely Aidan MacAlpin hadn't returned, after so many years.
She had to know. Marjorie descended another rung. Gathering her skirts high, she squatted for a quick peek at the cabin below. It was dim, lit only by a few lanterns hung on the walls.
Though she saw only two men — Cormac and a man holding him at gunpoint — she knew others were there. She heard Humphrey's heavy-chested breathing, sensed Jack standing just by the base of the ladder. Terrified, she bit her lip not to make a sound.
Cormac's eyes flicked to her, and he mouthed a curse. His captor looked up, too, and her heart stopped in her chest.
She shouldn't have looked. She should've popped back up when she saw the gun pressed at Cormac's temple.
His captor cocked a brow, and his cool nonchalance was eerily familiar. Cold sweat prickled her back. He held a gun to Cormac's head, so why did he not sound an alarm at the sight of her?
She peered at the man, holding her breath. He stared back at her, and she felt naked in his gaze. Was this the Aidan who'd spoken?
Could it be the Aidan?
Her breathing sped as her mind processed the impossible. She scrutinized him, straining through the darkness.
Her pounding heart ticked away the seconds, knowing each moment she was exposed was one too many. She compared the two of them, and though the MacAlpin twins hadn't been identical, there was an echo between these two men, in their dark hair, their height.
But it was impossible.
His captor whispered in Cormac's ear, and Cormac nudged him with his shoulder. The man shouldered him back, and disbelief hit her like vertigo. She blinked hard to stop her head from reeling. It was something she'd seen a thousand times — the MacAlpin boys jostling, taunting, shoving.
Aidan.
She was elated, relieved, puzzled, anxious — mostly, she couldn't fathom it. Was Aidan also held captive by the smugglers? But why would he aim his gun at his own brother? Could he be a smuggler himself?
Scampering back up the ladder, she closed her eyes, letting the revelation wash over her. Cormac would've seen him the night he left her to investigate. That was why he hadn't wanted to sink the ship. He'd seen Aidan and hadn't wanted to do anything to endanger his long-lost twin.
Her eyes flew open. She'd known something had come to pass. He'd kept silent, but she'd sensed it. She shouldn't have doubted him. Cormac hadn't turned his back on her —